MissouriGreen

Yesterday I took what will most likely be my last photographs of the annual orchid show at the Missouri Botanical Gardens. Though the flowers still charm, trying to focus all my attention through the lens while simultaneously avoid stepping on an elderly man, or rambunctious child, has proven too much and I decided yesterday the pictures taken will be my last.

The Missouri Botanical Gardens is celebrating its 150 year anniversary, and the show is focused on the Garden, itself, rather than on some whimsical tale or story. I think better of the show for returning focus to the Gardens, and for its simple and elegant design. In particular, I liked the foyer decoration this year, with its emphasis on Victorian and turn of the century gardens and flowers, centered on a collection of tussie mussies and an antique book the Garden people pulled out for inclusion in the show: the handmade booklet titled, "The Language of the Flowers", given as a gift from husband to wife. The front of the book contains a lovely little poem, perfect for Valentine's Day

There is a language 'little known,'
Lovers claim it as their own.

Its symbols smile upon the land,
Wrought by nature's wondrous hand;

And in their silent beauty speak,
Of life and joy, to those who seek.

For Love Divine and sunny hours
In the language of the flowers.

Though the sophisticate may find the poem overly simple, he or she may change their mind when they look at the book where the poem is contained, and at the page after page of flower names and their meaning, all written out in the gift giver's best copperplate, and each hand decorated.

The language of flowers had its roots throughout history, but in Victorian times, flowers and their meanings formed a new language, a secret form of communication between friends, lovers, and would be lovers. One could not say, "I love you" to a maiden, but one could imply his love with a gift of red roses. Whether the rose had its thorns or not provided a separate message, as did the number of petals and leaves. Gentlemen would send entire bouquets of different flowers, all combined to create a complex message, and a favorite parlor game was trying to decipher the message so given. What an elegant form of communication.

In the language of the flowers, an orchid means beauty and refinement, so my gift of beauty and refinement for you.

I went to the Mingo National Reserve this week–the last bit of bottomland left in the delta region of Missouri's boot heel. It's full of cypress swamps, marshes, a river and a lake, and is an important breeding ground for migratory birds. If the sounds I heard were any indication, the number of species that inhabit the grounds must be enormous.

I walked one trail and the songs were so loud and diverse that I found myself spinning about, trying to identify even a few of the birds I heard. No matter where I went, my movement always triggered a rustle in bushes, leaves, or water. What was both tantalizing and frustrating is that I would only catch a glimpse of whatever moved: a black and white hint of a woodpecker wings, the shadow of a eagle overhead, a heron peaking out at me from the trees. Never, quite seeing the whole.

As I drove the auto tour–a rough twenty mile road open four months of the year– biting and stinging insects would immediately come in through the open windows whenever I stopped, which was frequently. When I started back up again, the insects were just as quickly gone–not before leaving a souvenir, or two. I didn't care, as it was a small price to pay to be surrounded by such mysteries.

I grew up in the Northwest, in a land full of white water rivers, huge open lakes, tall mountains, and vast fields. It is so unlike the small, secretive swamps and marshes unique to the south. There is no habitat that speaks to me more of being in the south than to walk in a cypress swamp, which is probably why I find them both compelling and disconcerting.

We rose from the depths of swamps such as these. They represent the last bit of 'original life', though the world's rush to make them useful is destroying most of them and their important cousin, the rain forest. The problem with the Mississippi delta is it's considered some of the richest farmland in the world. Deposits from the river overflowing its banks have built up a top soil that is literally feet deep in some places. However, with such richness is a price: the land is wet, boggy, swampy, and flooding is a natural part of the ecosystem.

Still, people persevered, and much of the original land where indians camped for over 12,000 years–to hunt and fish in the dense forests, the rich waters–is gone; replaced by neat hoed rows and small towns. Replaced until the Old 'Sip reminds us, from time to time, that we don't own the land on which we live.

I decided to visit a park in Illinois yesterday and walk the trails while my roommate rode a bike path that connected with the park. The weather was perfect: cool but sunny, and the trees just starting to turn. Most of the road to the park was by the Mississippi and it looked beautiful and blue rather than dangerous and dark.

The park had many miles of trails, most 'moderately difficult'. I was loaded down with camera equipment, but felt I wouldn't have a problem with 'moderately difficult'.

The trail started up sharply, and then just continued. Up and up. It was difficult footing, though I've had worse. But I, soft and overweight from a summer made up of hot, sedentary days, began to have troubles. I would pass folks on the way and chat with each of them, holding on to their presence. At one lookout point, I talked with a younger couple, taking their photo for them; admiring their GPS device. I, who normally eschew humanity during my hikes, felt the need for contact.

I have no sense; I continued. I was passed by a couple and their two kids. The man gave me a friendly pat on the arm as he passed, as if to assure me that I will not die. As they made their way, I noticed that they would stop along the way so that I was always just a bit behind them. Eventually, at one point where the way was sharply steep, he had stopped to wait for me to give me a hand. I've not yet met a trail that was so much for me that I needed help, but I did yesterday. I was grateful for his help; I was grateful for the fact that they slowed their steps because of concern for me.

At the top, where the trails divided, we talked. Their names were Jan and Les and they had just moved from Florida to Missouri. I told them of many of the places to hike and walk; they told me how life was like in Florida. I told them I was going to continue with the trail marked 'easy', to the road for a safe trip down. They continued on the 'moderately difficult'.

But I am stubborn. To go the easy route would take me over two miles out of my way, and I wanted to finish the walk. Half way, it connected with a quicker route down that was labeled 'moderately difficult'. It was only 1/4 mile and I felt I could handle it.

It was a nightmare. There was no path, it had been eroded by water and was steep and uneven and difficult footing. For most of it, I walked sideways, leaning heavily on my walking stick.

I met another family on the way; again a mother, father, and two kids though these children were much younger. They seemed strained, so I knew I wasn't the only one having problems. Oddly enough, there was a very sharp step down where I met them (most likely why they had stopped). This time, I asked for help–just a shoulder to steady on, as I made the step. I then continued down, as they continued up. Eventually the trail gave way to road and road to car and little has felt so good than the seat of that car.

Note to self: easy trails for the next two months. I can't always depend on a handy shoulder being nearby.

I don't really have many pictures from the trip. On the way, there was a cave system that we stopped at, and was able to get one photo I liked.

Loren, who has been sharing tales of courage and horror from his fearsome youth, recounted one incident with a slippery log and a fall into a swift stream. Ever since, he's hiked out of his way to avoid having to use logs to cross streams.

(He and I also shared a five year old fascination with matches, oddly enough. I wonder if the cause and effect associated with 'matches' and 'uncontrolled fire' is an epiphany all five year olds undergo?)

I share his wariness of log crossing, but mine is based less on specific event than ongoing experience. Not only do I avoid logs, I also avoid ledges, unsteady hillsides, icy paths, and any form of roller or ice skating. I am a klutz, you see. A rather good one, at that. In a parking lot, I can manage to slip on the one and only wet pinecone; I can climb down rocky paths, only to slip on a bit of gravel at the end. I trip over unseen roots, and knocked myself out trying to chase a ball during softball when I fell into a tree. I even fainted at a wedding once, when we were required to stand for part of the service and I locked my knees, and caused myself to pass out.

When I am in prime physical condition (yeah, that will be the day again), I can move like a panther, all supple strength. But then, something always seems to get in the way.

For instance, Sunday I drove down to Bollinger Mill to film it and the Burfordville covered bridge. It was a perfect day, in the 30's, excellent weather and the mill and bridge are extremely well maintained. Crossing the covered bridge to the other side, I started down the hill towards the White River in order to get a better shot at the mill and the spillway. I didn't pay attention to the signs of recent flooding, until I started slipping on the wet mud that covered the hill. Not wanting to slide down on my butt into an icy cold river, I dug my stick into the ground and held on for dear life, twisting and turning to maintain my balance.

"Oh my!" "Watch out!" "Wup!" "Damn, this is slippery" "Youwillnotfall Youwillnot fall!" "Ahh!"

Eventually I managed to stable myself until I could find firmer footing on a bit of rock and from there, pull myself back up the hill, dignity and camera intact. That is until an older man who had been across the way walked over to me and asked me if I was alright. I thanked him and said it was just a slight slip, and nothing much to worry about.

"Well, we were worried that you were going to fall in. Glad you didn't."

Then out popped a huge smile.

"I shouldn't say this, but you sure were funny."

So much for the panther.